


Tomorrow We Make Our Apologies

by HapaxLegomenon



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Brotherly Love, Five fixes it, Fix-It, Gen, Major Character Injury, Not Beta Read, Or not, Post-Season/Series 01, We Die Like Ben, five is a secret softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HapaxLegomenon/pseuds/HapaxLegomenon
Summary: ...tonight we make our move.They're sixteen again, and everyone is on edge because Ben is going to die.Well, not if Five has anything to say about it.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 19
Kudos: 340





	Tomorrow We Make Our Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot follows the conclusion of Season 1, on the assumption that Five manages to bring them all back in time together so that they can live their lives over again and stop things from going so badly.

They're sixteen again, and everyone is on edge because Ben is going to die.

This is when it happened the first time around, and for everything they manage to change there’s something that stays the same, and for all his skill, not even Five is exactly certain what will fall into each category.

“Well, figure it out,” Luther orders, during a clandestine sibling meeting on the floor of Klaus’s bedroom. “Nobody’s dying this time.”

Five pulls his lips back and tight over his teeth in the most menacing iteration of a smile, and shakes his head as he paces, socked feet quiet on the floorboards. “You don’t _understand,_ ” he says, voice slow and deliberate. “From what you’ve all told me, Ben’s death was a catalyst in everyone leaving in the original timeline, right? That’s a major event with major repercussions and it’ll be harder to change without ruining everything else. You saw what I tried to stop the Apocalypse. Temporal manipulation isn’t exact. I won’t know if we’ve gotten it right until it happens.” It doesn’t stop him from trying, he doesn’t tell them. They don’t need to know yet.

“We have to do _something,_ " Klaus says. He’s tucked up in a ball on his bed, fingers picking at the ragged hems of his pyjama pants and chin between his knees. Even curled up like that he exudes enough restless energy to make the rest of them twitchy, except maybe for Ben, who’s had longer to get used to it. Ben, who usually occupies the space beside Klaus and is the best at soothing away some of his tense fearfulness on a normal day.

That doesn’t happen tonight. Ben ducks his head the same way he always did when they were kids the first time, like he can hide behind a book or in the collar of his jacket. “I’d really rather not die again, if it’s all the same to you.” There’s a lilt to his voice that is probably intended to be humour, but it falls flat. He just sounds scared. Ben wraps his arms around his middle, and Klaus reaches out a hand to twist his fingers up in Ben’s shirtsleeve.

“You won’t,” he promises with trademark earnestness. “I need-- we can’t let you die like that again.”

“It might not be up to us,” Ben says, soft and brave and reaching in turn to touch Klaus’s knee with his fingertips. Five feels his chest squeezing at the display as Vanya looks at her feet and Diego clenches his jaw. Nobody wants to admit that Ben could be right. They didn’t manage to stop the Apocalypse, after all. Why should this be any different?

“Look,” Five says, uncomfortable in the face of so much blatant emotion. He stops pacing to face the rest of them. “I can’t promise anything, and I’m sorry about that, but believe me when I say that I will do everything in my power to keep you alive. All of you. Got it?”

“This isn’t just on you,” Luther reminds him, because even after three years Five tends to forget. “We’re in this together.”

Ben manages to smile.

☂

The thing is, Five’s been working on this problem for over a year already. His room is full of chalk dust and quantum physics textbooks and cramped notes in the margins of his illicit copy of Vanya’s not-yet-written book. The book is scarce on details-- apparently Vanya had enough respect for the dead not to drag Ben or Five’s dirty laundry out to air even as she dumped the rest of their siblings under the bus. It’s completely illogical but Five can appreciate the sentiment. The book tells him that Ben died on a mission, something gang-related and supposedly low-risk that ended in gory catastrophe, but she doesn’t say anything beyond that. 

“Go ask Number One,” is all Diego will say when asked, flipping a knife between his fingers with an angry energy that tells Five exactly where Diego places the blame.

Luther’s guilty expression is a bit more surprising. If it’s normal for Diego to pin everything on Luther, then it’s equally as common for Luther to deflect that blame. “Tell me,” Five demands. “I need to know everything.”

“The mission was the top priority,” Luther recites, rote bullshit that even he doesn’t quite believe anymore. Not after his team died and left, not after four fruitless years on the moon and then re-living their teenage years with the perspective of an adult. It’s taken Luther a long time to realize that their father isn’t all-knowing and even longer to know how to deal with it, but he’s trying. They all have their hang-ups to fix this time around. Five’s proud of him, not that he’d ever say as much.

Luther tells the story.

Infuriatingly, there’s not much to go on there, either. A run-of-the-mill drug trafficking bust that went wrong. Allison securing the shipment and calling in the authorities, Luther and Diego and Ben dispersed through a nighttime shipyard to take down the smugglers because Luther thought it would be more efficient to spread out. Klaus left at home because at sixteen, he was already far too familiar with cocaine and crystal meth and they couldn’t trust him to have their backs. Vanya not even an afterthought.

“There were more of them than we expected,” Luther says, his face pinched like he’s trying not to cry. “And he-- he lost control, or something, I don’t know. I, uh.” Luther pauses to bite back on an emotion that threatens to take over, corrupting his voice and the strong lift in his jaw. “I remember him screaming. I didn’t realize until--”

“That’s enough, Luther,” Five interrupts, because he’s seen a lot, can imagine a lot, and doesn’t want to imagine his brother ripped apart from the inside and bleeding out onto a cracked, concrete floor, alone.

“I carried him home.”

Luther’s always been big and dumb and idealistic and sometimes, Five reflects as he pats Luther’s knee and waits for Number One to regain his composure, sometimes, they don’t give him enough credit. 

When Luther’s breathing settles, Five drops a notebook and a pen into his lap. “I need names,” he says. “Names, locations, anything you have.”

☂

They’re all bruised and exhausted after a full day of combat training with their shithead of a father, and once Five stops throwing up from the strain of jump after jump after jump, he heads down to the kitchen. He’s looking for a piece of toast and a glass of water, but instead finds Klaus laying flat on his back on the table, shirtless and spread-eagle. Ben is there too, of course, slumped in one of the mismatched chairs, staring listlessly at a glass of ginger ale covered in condensation. 

“That was brutal, man,” Klaus whines. A bruise the approximate shape and size of Luther’s foot blooms bright purple across his ribs. He flops his head to the side and waggles his fingertips in a greeting to Five. 

Ben groans and thumps his forehead down on the table. Five can see the rippling of tentacles under his shirt and Ben presses them back with his hands. “I feel like I’m being ripped in half,” he mutters, and Klaus titters out a high-pitched, almost hysterical giggle.

“You’d know,” he jokes, and Ben grins at the gallows humour. 

Five drops into the chair across from Ben’s and peers at him over Klaus’s shins. “Is that how it happened, then?” he asks, because he needs to know. It feels crass, even to Five, to ask Ben to relive his violent death, but he has to do it. He needs the information. Better to make him relive it through memory now, than through death later.

The smile slips off Ben’s face. “More or less,” he says. “I honestly don’t remember much of the, um, actual event.”

Klaus visibly shudders and reaches up to press the balls of his hands against his eyes. He doesn’t have his tattoos yet, but Five’s sure it’s only a matter of time; Klaus has been lamenting their loss for years already. “And thank God, in all of Her high holy bitchiness, for that,” he mutters. Ben smirks in agreement. 

“But was it the Horror?” Five presses, because he needs to know. “Or was it the bad guys?”

“Five, man, chill,” Klaus says, appalled. “What’s with the, the Five-ish Inquisition here?”

“Five-ish?”

“You know, like Spanish?”

“Weak effort.”

“Shut up, Ben.”

“If I’m going to keep Ben from dying,” Five snaps, because he’s sore and nauseated and completely out of patience, “then I need to know _everything_ about how and why it happened. Life and time have an infinite number of variables and I need to eliminate as many as possible if I want my corrections to have any effect at all.” There’s a throbbing headache building to a cacophony behind Five’s eyes, and he thinks wistfully of the liquor in their father’s office. It won’t help the headache or nausea, probably, but it might at least put him to sleep for a while. Not that he has time for that. “I’m good at what I do,” he reminds his brothers, “but none of you understand how complex it is to change the timeline without detection. I’ve assassinated people for less than I’m attempting now.”

Five startles when someone puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s just Ben, with a grim but supportive smile, and he says, “I might not understand what you’re doing, but I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re trying. I’ll tell you whatever I can.” Ben pauses, and his lips twist ruefully. “Besides, talking about it doesn’t bother me. I think it was more traumatizing to the rest of these idiots than it was for me.”

“Hey,” Klaus protests, but he doesn’t actually deny the claim. His hands are shaking. “God, I need a cigarette,” he mumbles like an afterthought.

“Craving anything else?” Ben asks, sharp, and Klaus, to his credit, takes a moment to consider it before he shakes his head.

“Naw, m’okay, Benny-boy, I’m just gonna go--” he waves his hands in the vague direction of ‘outside’ “--while you and Five discuss the details of your gruesome death. Toodles.” Klaus rolls off the table top and flops heavily to the floor before picking himself up and making his lopsided way out of the kitchen. He throws his left hand over his shoulder as he goes, and Five knows that it’s supposed to be ‘goodbye.’

“We should have Mom check his ribs,” Five murmurs, briefly distracted by Klaus’s unsteady gait and the way he holds himself curled to the side. 

Ben hums. “I’m sure he’s fine. It’s Klaus. He’s tougher than he looks.” With visible effort, Ben straightens in his chair and folds his hands on the table in front of him, business-like. “So,” he says, “what do you need me to tell you?”

Five spreads his own hands. “Whatever you remember.”

Ben’s nose scrunches up as he shakes his head. “Like I said, not much. There were a bunch of guys, more than we thought would be there. We split up to cover ground and I got cornered.” He frowns and his fingers twitch to touch just above his hip. “I think I got shot.” 

“Are you mad?” Five’s mouth asks, before his brain can kick in and stop him. Stupid question. Of course he is. Five would be furious if it were him.

“No,” Ben says, because he isn’t Five and even now, he somehow manages to see the world through a positive lens. “I mean, not anymore. It was an accident. And I’m fine now, so.” He smiles, as if a cosmic fluke bringing him back to life after thirteen years of being dead and helplessly watching his brother destroy his own life is no big deal. Just another day at the office for the Umbrella Academy.

“Diego blames Luther.”

Ben winces. “Yeah, I know.”

“Was it his fault?”

Ben hesitates, and his silence speaks volumes.

☂

Tomorrow’s the day and Five is out of time. He specializes in subtle adjustments, in teasing apart the tangled webs of choices and timelines to create maximum impact with minimal action. He has turned his science into an artform, but here, now, where it matters most-- he’s out of time.

Sometimes, finesse isn’t enough. That’s when Five employs his considerable skills in brute force.

Sir Reginald never bothers to lock up his weapons, which makes it easy for Five to jump into his office and retrieve a rifle. He doesn’t bother with a bag, this time, just fills his pockets with extra ammunition and a few of Diego’s knives, just to be safe.

And then he goes to the warehouse.

The first two are dead before anyone can react, and a third goes down with a knife through his leg just as the shooting begins. Five ducks behind a shipping container with the rattle of gunfire in his ears and works methodically. Look, jump, shoot. Repeat. He knows from Ben and Luther’s testimonies that there were at least thirty people from two rival gangs present at the swap. There may not be that many here tonight, he figures, but even if there are, thirty is easy. Five can do thirty. He’s done it before as an old man and again as a child. And now, his body is fitter and his powers are stronger and maybe this is overkill, but that doesn’t matter if it keeps Ben alive.

Five is going to raze this building and everyone in it to the fucking ground. 

Look, jump, shoot.

There’s a building pain in his stomach that threatens to slow him down, but Five just grits his teeth. What’s the point in having teleportation powers if he can’t use them to protect his family? He’s puked from the vertigo before and he’ll do it again, but not before everyone in this shithole of a warehouse has a bullet or a knife in their body.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. It might take anywhere between five and forty-five minutes before the shooting stops and everyone lies dead or groaning on the concrete floor. The walls are splattered Pollock-style and Five spits the iron taste of blood from his mouth. It’s done. And with seven bullets left over, to boot. He siphons gas from the beaters parked outside and splashes it on the bodies and bricks of cocaine and pallets of who-knows-what.

“Good,” he says to himself. His hair falls into his eyes and when he flicks his head to knock it away, the entire building spins around him and he staggers and falls. He registers the slight pain of a scraped knee. Then the sharper pain in his gut. Blood pools around his feet and he looks down at his vest.

“Well,” Five says, “shit.” The lit match falls limply from his fingers and he pulls every last scrap of energy together to make one more jump as the building goes up in flames.

☂

“No, no no nonono,” he hears. It’s high and whiney and sounds like Klaus. “Nononono, not again, please not again.”

Klaus is already crying, hunched over himself on his bed, hands twisted in his hair and eyes wild as Five bleeds onto his carpet. For a hazy second Five wonders what on Earth he’s talking about, then Ben’s voice says, “I see him too,” and he realizes that choosing to jump to the bedroom of his séance brother, grievously injured, might not have been the best idea.

“I’m not dead, you idiot,” he manages to grit through a clenched jaw. Five’s been shot before, of course, but it’s been a while. It hurts. His stomach feels hot and the rest of him feels cold and it’s only through great force of will that he manages to stay on his feet. “Not yet, anyway.”

Klaus’s mouth opens in an ‘o’ of realization, then he screams “ _Medic!_ ” with a frantic volume that Five’s only heard before on battlefields. There’s an impact, Five’s vision whiting out from pain, and he realizes slowly that he’s on the floor with hands pressing hard into the wound in his gut. “It’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay,” Klaus croons, “it’s gonna be okay. Ben, get Mom. _Now_.”

There’s a thudding resonance of footsteps that rattles through Five’s battered body. “Could you be a little less aggressive about it?” he hisses. It’s difficult to breathe, and Five doesn’t know if it’s because of the hole in his guts, or the way Klaus seems to be putting his whole weight against it. He’s nothing if not determined, Five thinks through a haze.

“Shit,” someone’s feet say, next to Five’s head. “What--?”

“I think he got shot,” Klaus’ voice answers, high and tearful. “I don’t know how, he just-- he just showed up covered in blood.”

Someone shoves a hand under Five’s back, between Klaus’ hands and the carpet, and Five can’t bite back a moan of pain. He blinks, and Diego’s face swims into focus, almost as pale as Klaus. He tries to look around, but it’s hard to see. Where’s Ben? He can’t find Ben. He can’t remember why he needs to find Ben.

“Exit wound,” Diego says, in a way that manages to sound both terrified and relieved, “in-and-out. How’s his b-breathing? Hey,” he says sharply, and Five manages to blink his eyes open again-- he doesn’t remember when they closed-- and he sees Diego shake Klaus’ shoulder. “Hey! Breathing?”

Klaus nods, shallow jerks of his chin. “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, no pneumothorax. I think.”

“That blood his?” Someone-- Diego, probably-- wipes a hand across Five’s mouth and chin. Five thinks about biting it but he can’t figure out how to move his jaw. 

“No idea, I haven’t seen him, um, spit anything up yet though. Hang in there, Five, okay?” Klaus’ voice sounds distant. Five wishes he would come closer, and that someone would make the room stop spinning. And tell him where Ben is. There’s something about Ben that feels important, but he can’t quite grasp it. 

“Ben’s okay, he’s getting Mom, he’s fine, okay? C’mon, Five, c’mon, this isn’t supposed to happen, this isn’t _fair_ …”

They’re too far away. Five can’t hear them anymore.

☂

He thinks he hears voices. One is unfamiliar, a little girl’s voice. She sounds disappointed when she says, “It’s not supposed to be _you_.”

Some, he recognizes. They say things he can’t quite make out. Sometimes they cry. He’s too tired to wonder why.

☂

Five feels a prickle of consciousness and grabs it with both hands, clawing himself back into awareness with the same single-minded ferocity that kept him alive in a burning wasteland. He comes roaring back into his body with a snarl and bared teeth, and he hears a thump and a soft, surprised curse.

Then there are hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the bed, and for a wild moment Five doesn’t know when or where he is. He tries to fight before a paralyzing pain spikes up his side and he recognizes Ben’s voice in the frantic whispers of, “Five, it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down!”

Which doesn’t help much, he thinks woozily, because Ben’s probably dead, they both might be dead. But then the pain flares again and he goes limp with a groan. “Death wouldn’t hurt this much,” he mutters.

Ben smiles. His hand moves from Five’s shoulder to his cheek, and normally Five doesn’t like this kind of touch, the sweetness and affection that Ben puts into things, but right now, it’s nice. “Death doesn’t feel like anything,” Ben says. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you didn’t manage to get yourself killed this time, bro.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Five says. Obviously.

Ben’s face softens. “I know.”

Emotions are perhaps Five’s least favourite experience, if not second only to Twinkies. Things have changed, in the last three years-- Allison insists on talking about their problems, and Klaus and Vanya take to familial sharing with a frightening vigour. Five’s working on trusting them again, but sixty years of total self-reliance has its effects on the psyche. The openness of Ben’s expression is hard to look at, like staring into the sun. When Five squints, he can see fear, affection. Gratitude.

“Don’t,” he says, and has to look away. His head spins and he bites back another moan. Morphine. He hates morphine. 

“Thank you.” It’s barely more than a breath.

“Don’t, I said,” Five says, perhaps harsher than he means. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Okay,” Ben whispers, a tacit agreement to let Five have this last word. 

Five fought the entire goddamn Apocalypse for his terrible, infuriating, irreplaceable family. A roomful of common criminals is nothing. It’s just bad luck that he got shot doing it, is all.

He shifts uncomfortably. The bandage is itchy and even through a haze of Mom’s painkillers he can still feel the wound. “How long,” he starts, but Ben shushes him quickly, then glances to his side.

Five looks, and sees Klaus. He’s draped over a hardback chair in a way that hurts just to look at, head back and mouth open. Asleep. Five feels his mouth twitch into a smile despite himself. He lowers his voice and asks again, “How long was I out?”

“Almost two days,” Ben says. “It’s, like, 3 am.” 

Two days. Something goes out in Five, like a snuffed candle, and he sags into the bed. “I did it, then,” he murmurs. The day has passed and Ben’s still alive. 

“Yeah. You did. By the way,” Ben starts, and Five doesn’t like the sudden sparkle in his eyes. “Now that we know you’re okay, Klaus is going to kill you.”

Five scoffs even as he slides his gaze back to his pretzeled brother. “Not exactly a threatening proposition. He won’t be able to move in the morning sleeping like that.” True, teenagers are remarkably bendy-- Five really isn’t looking forward to the arthritis that had begun in his mid-fifties last time-- but there’s not a chance that at least one of Klaus’ legs hasn’t gone entirely numb. They should probably wake him up and send him to bed. Then again, Klaus sleeps infrequently enough that it might be for the best to just leave him where he is. It occurs to Five that Klaus was probably keeping vigil as he lay unconscious. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that he’s touched by this ineffectual gesture of fraternity.

Ben plants his elbow on the mattress and rests his chin in his hand. “He wouldn’t leave you,” he says, because apparently Ben’s picked up a mind-reading power somewhere. “You scared the crap out of him. Why’d you go to Klaus’ room, anyway?”

Five clenches his jaw. “I don’t remember,” he lies.

If the raised eyebrow is any indication, Ben doesn’t quite believe him, but he lets it go. “Well, it was a good call. He and Diego already had a pretty good handle on things by the time Mom got there.”

As if he hears them talking about him, Klaus twitches and frowns in his chair. Ben sits up, alert and ready to use his Klaus-specific voodoo to soothe away whatever nightmare memory their brother’s unconscious mind has dragged up. Klaus shifts again. The arm he has thrown over the back of the chair slips and falls heavily into his lap, and Klaus wakes with a start.

“Buh?” he says, blinking as his eyes land on Ben.

Ben smirks. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Mrgh,” Klaus groans. “Is Five--”

“Hey,” Five says from his bed.

Klaus gasps, and smiles, and immediately falls over when he tries to stand. There’s a muffled “Ow…” from the floor, and Klaus’s curly head pops back up. “Leg’s still asleep,” he says with a crooked grin, and then he reaches for Five with both hands. “You’re awake!”

“Don’t,” Five tries to warn, but he barely gets the word out before his face is being squished into Klaus’ sweaty t-shirt and Klaus’ breath is hot and damp on the side of his neck. Eugh. “Klaus,” he tries again. He manages to worm the hand unoccupied with an oxygen clip and IV in between himself and Klaus, and he shoves weakly at his brother’s chest. It works, kind of, because Klaus releases the octopus grip on his head in favour of squeezing Five’s hand in both of his own.

“Oh, I was so worried about you!” Klaus says with frightening sincerity. Before Five can coax his drug-addled brain into some kind of witty retort, Klaus’ mood abruptly shifts, and he shoves away from the bed to point at Five with a dramatic, accusatory finger. “ _We,_ ” he says, “are going to have _words_ later, young man! About your reckless behaviour!”

“Told you,” Ben pipes up, and Klaus throws up his other hand with a declaration of, “Shut up, Ben.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Five hisses, frustrated anger boiling in his skin. His side hurts. And his head is throbbing from the effort of trying to stay awake against the pull of the morphine that isn’t quite doing its job. And Klaus doesn’t understand, none of them do, what he does for this godforsaken family.

“Yeah, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it! You didn’t even tell anyone what you were doing, I had no idea you were even _gone,_ and then--” Klaus bites off his words and exhales hard through his nose. He shoves his hands through his hair, then waves them around for a moment like he’s trying to catch the thread of whatever it is he wants to say. Finally, he sighs, and his shoulders droop. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.” He pauses, though, and adds, “You need anything?” looking first at Ben, then Five. 

They shake their heads, and Klaus nods. He looks awful, Five realizes, even more exhausted than usual. There’s tension around his mouth and bruise-like shadows around his eyes. Five himself probably looks worse, if how he’s feeling is any indication. It hasn’t been a great week for any of them. “Klaus,” he calls, and keeps his voice steady as he says, “I’m sorry.”

Klaus’ mouth twists in a sardonic wince, and he reaches over to tap the backs of his knuckles against Five’s cheekbone. Then he limps out, rubbing at the numbness in his hip, and doesn’t look back.

“You should go back to sleep too,” Ben says. He leans down to pick up a book from the floor, long fingers smoothing a crumpled page, and then he smiles. “Seriously, Five, go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“You’d better,” Five threatens impotently, and the last thing he hears is Ben’s quiet laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> The title quote is something that has stuck with me for a long time, and I didn't know the source. Turns out it was from a player on the show Survivor. How about that.
> 
> Follow me for fandom updates at [@paxlegomenon](https://twitter.com/paxlegomenon) on Twitter.


End file.
